


Five Observations On Cohabitating with a Grumpy Snake

by Sqwirlgrl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 15:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20744123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sqwirlgrl/pseuds/Sqwirlgrl
Summary: Married life in the South Downs is peaceful, settling into an every day kind of love. Aziraphale now has the chance to get to know Crowley like he's never known him before; up close, unguarded, and sharing a space that they get to make a home.





	Five Observations On Cohabitating with a Grumpy Snake

He touches me all the time now. He ghosts the tips of his long fingers over the back of my neck when my head is down at my desk. He presses kisses under my jaw as I reach for a shelf. He hooks an arm around my hip while he tells me what the weather is going to be like for the day. Now he also touches my elbow when he wants to get my attention--he looked a bit hurt the first few times I startled when he started speaking from out of my field of vision, but he moves so quietly and his eyes are so intense. I think something about them was always supposed to elicit a prey response, something hard coded into this body I wear. I think that was the real cruelty of those eyes he was given--that no one would ever really be able to feel safe around him. No animal or man would ever be able to look into those eyes and feel kinship, familiarity, or love. But I'm not an animal or a man. I can see what hovers beyond this plane and this corporation, and see what he Is. 

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He dances all the time. His hips sway to a rhythm as he cooks dinner with his clever little portable speaker in the kitchen. When he's in a really good mood he'll sweep me up for a few turns, stumbling around the room and laughing. He moves to music spilling out of a bar as he sashays down the street on the way to see a show. His long, lanky body never stops moving. I can still see black scales and soft hisses in every impossibly smooth, gliding movement he makes. Sometimes he twirls through the cottage, eyes closed, completely transported by whatever he's listening to. That's the only reason why I've never made good on my threat to throw his infernal wireless headphones in the sea. I can never tell when he's wearing them, and constantly have to repeat myself, but he loves his music too much for me to take it away from him. He moves like both a man and woman in turns--now all confident snaps and broad shoulders, now swaying hips and delicate spins on slim ankles. 

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He never apologizes. It is always, always, always someone else's fault--even if only because they didn't proactively prevent him from doing the wrong thing. He claimed that he only used my copy of A Room of One's Own as a coaster for his sweating whiskey tumbler because I hadn't left any proper coasters. He apparently couldn't be expected to put away his gardening shears properly because the idiot weatherman hadn't called for sudden rain. The last of my jam was only gone because he wanted to see if he could lure a hedgehog into a bucket to leave on a door to fall on someone's head, and the stupid hedgehog wouldn't be persuaded to incarcerate itself for peanut butter. Lord Give Me Strength. But he promises to grow me more strawberries to preserve in the summer, and he will remember--he always does. 

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Anger flashes from him wild and hot. He bares his teeth, he growls and hisses, he insinuates and accuses. I think this is where the Fall lives in him, but I think it's where Truth lives as well. He can't stand for any kind of injustice, or any kind of hypocrisy. Even when justice is cruel and unkind. He looks unflinchingly at things as they are, not as they should or shouldn't be. 

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He loves children. They must look a little like unfallen angels to him, created and loved and knowing nothing but living in that love and marveling at that creation. He watches them play while we're at the park, lounging on our bench and looking with an expression that approaches peace and approval, so rare outside of the shelter of our home. I don't think he knows that he's doing it, but protection and power pour out of him at these times. He can't quite create happiness and peace, but he feels malevolence and ill intent, and he carries them away as surely as bits of paper from a gushing hydrant. I fill in the newly empty space with waves of kindness, mercy, love and gentleness and their play is just a little more joyful, a bit less violent and sad. They'll never know what a guardian angel they have in him. But I remember a life before him, before he loved me. I know what they've gained just by sharing a sky with him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a place for me to explore my head canons and practice writing from Aziraphale's POV. I may add chapters from Crowley's POV, or expand if I have an idea I want to explore. Feel free to leave me prompts or HCs in the comments!


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